A late night hour, I’ve heard no sound
But cracked whistles from the drain
Consuming what I’ve left behind
Habits, needs – it’s all the same
I am too like other things
Apples, beef and body wastes
I tried to lose the grip
I tried to fall asleep
But something shook me up
Flocks – They gathered round like clouds above my shelter city
Seaming roars of mourners, blaming God above
Leaning down their heads towards the Iris’s stem
There he was hanged beside his love
The cricket’s broken violin
I’ve never thought of why he stopped
His monotonic painful lamentation
The cricket’s broken violin
The stage – the stem beneath my house
Through all his life
Through all my nights
He tried to write his next creation
The herd was gone and I was left
To lift his tiny body up
A matchbox, a proper end
You’re dreaming now my only friend
A matchbox, a proper end
I write these words with broken pens
I wish I could dream too
I wish I could dream
Through all my life
Through all my nights
I try to write my next creation
